Rough Diamond
by Orpah
Summary: Haiti is a small colony who has only ever been a colony. With France's strict, lacking-in-warmth upbringing and a brother who never seems to be there for him, can Haiti ever rise out of his past and into a good future? History of Haiti in a story. Dominican Republic also shows up.
1. Chapter 1

Saint-Domingue is Haiti, Santo Domingo is the Dominican Republic.

I don't own Hetalia! end/AN/

"One, two, three, four, five." Santo Domingo's brown fingers tapped each fingertip of Saint-Domingue's open hand. "That's five, Ayiti. There were five."

Saint-Domingue stuck his dark fingers into his mouth. France described him as 'darker than tar,' a comparison that had made Saint-Domingue scrub at his skin to see if it would come off, become the lighter color on the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. It did not. "Five?"

"Yes, there were five," Santo Domingo said, quite pleased with this game. He was the bigger child, and he pulled Saint-Domingue's fingers out of his mouth, spreading them again so he could count again. "One, two, three, four, five, just like your fingers, Ayiti."

Saint-Domingue smiled, counting along his finger. "One, two, three, four, five."

"One, Jaragua, two, Marién, three, Maguana, four, Maguá, and five, Higüey."

The names delighted Saint-Domingue. He loved this game, the way the sounds of the names rolled off of Santo Domingo's tongue.

"Then, España came, and boom! They all fell down!"

"All fell down! Espagne!" Saint-Domingue said with a grin. He had never seen Spain, having been created when France took part of the island. Hispaniola, the island he and his brother, Santo Domingo, shared together.

"You know why. They were coughing! They had marks all over their bodies! Down, down, down, fell to the ground." Santo Domingo spread his hands wide. "That's why we don't see them now today!"

"Santo Domingo-" Saint-Domingue started, but that was when his brother switched to frowning.

"Kiskeya. You call me Kiskeya, Ayiti!" He shoved Saint-Domingue, making him fall down onto his back. Then he stood, saying, "I'm gonna go back home. You go back to France."

"But Sa- Kiskeya! I wanna stay with you!" Saint-Domingue pleaded.

"Adios." And Santo Domingo ran out of their clearing for home.

/AN/In the 1500s, Spain colonized Hispaniola, one of the first places discovered by Columbus. However, they couldn't control the piracy, and in the 1600s, France managed to get a colony on the west side. So, the colonies were called Santo Domingo and Saint-Domingue respectively.

What the two are talking about is the native population, or the Taino or Arawak. The worst case of depopulation was in Hispaniola, through a combination of disease, slavery, and other things; the native peoples were declared 'extinct' by experts of the time, though it seems the Arawak blood still runs in many Haitian and Dominican veins.

Kiskeya and Ayiti are both Native names for the island of Hispaniola. Also, in my characterization, I figure the Dominican Republic is both older and knows more about their past due to having been around longer.

Hope y'all enjoyed it! I hope to update it tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own Hetalia! End/AN/

Saint-Domingue traced his fingers along the archway of France's house. It was made to allow air to move, because, as France had told him, it was so much hotter here than at his house. And, he was told, there could also be snow, and cold colder than he had ever had here.

He doubted that much was true. He had been pretty cold before.

As he leaned in, he could see France drinking from a cup, a glass one; he called it a wine glass, of course, but Saint-Domingue wasn't sure if it was always wine that was in it. Sometimes it was different from the reddish color he was familiar with.

He looked about the room, painted pink. There were curtains, intended to keep bugs out while people slept, and there were soft things to sleep and sit on. He wasn't used to soft, to be honest, and so his eyes lingered a mattress, wondering what it would be like to lay across it.

"Yes?" France looked up from the papers he was going through. "Is there something you wanted?"

Saint-Domingue stuck his fingers into his mouth, mumbling, "I just wanna-"

"No. No, little one, that is not a way to behave," France said, sighing and standing. He pulled Saint-Domingue's fingers out of his mouth, and gave him a stern look. His blond brows knit a bit in confusion, as he held Saint-Domingue's tiny hand in his. "What is this?"

Saint-Domingue looked down at his hand, and quickly clenched it into a fist when he saw the traces of fruit. "I just didn't eat fruit! I just didn't!"

"What have we said about lying?" France's grip tightened a bit, his blue eyes like an angry sea. "You know the rules! You do not eat until I eat. Have I eaten, Saint-Domingue?"

Saint-Domingue could feel the cold chill crawling up his spine. It was like sitting in a puddle on a cloudy day. "I'm not lying! It's not a lie! I just smashed some fruit by accident!"

That was not the truth. What had happened, the truth, was that he had met up with Santo Domingo, and they had eaten fruit together. But Saint-Domingue knew, or rather, hoped, that if he persisted in the lie, he would be believed and not be punished. He knew what it was like to be punished for it, and he did not want that.

France groaned, wiping across his eyes. So, since he seemed reluctant, it was surprise when Saint-Domingue felt a sharp sting across his cheek. "Saint-Domingue, I am disappointed in you, and God is disappointed in you."

Saint-Domingue's eyes were stinging with tears. He didn't dare wipe them, however, instead swallowing hard and whimpering out the premade statement, "I was wrong, and I will never do it again. I ask you and God to forgive me for my sin."

France nodded, lips pursed. Then he looked away, mumbling, "You're forgiven. Just go get the food for dinner."

Saint-Domingue scrambled to get dinner. He didn't much focus on it, hand reaching up to massage the part that had been slapped; he could feel the skin was raised a little, and he imagined that, if he had skin as white as France's, there would be a brilliant red handprint. As it was, his skin probably didn't show it much.

He caught his reflection on a pot, and touched it. He could see his deeply brown eyes, a contrast to France's light blue. He could also see a frown in the corners of his mouth, and it made him scowl. "Do not make things worse," he instructed himself, and then he had to dash on to make a sort of mush. France may have been the fanciest man on the island, but it didn't mean he got to eat meat every day.

France had, once or twice, regaled him with stories of his home; huge buildings, bigger than Saint-Domingue could ever imagine, gentle breezes, the smell of baked goods and sweet, sweet things, silk, velvet, brocade... it sounded like a paradise.

The sweetest things that Saint-Domingue knew were fruits, but France told him pastries were sweeter, more dignified.

And the homes were fifty times the size of the building here. It made Saint-Domingue wonder what his house would be like, if he lived there. Maybe only ten times the size of France's home here, and with lace-silk-velvet curtains, surely a small matter to get for a colony in a place like France.

But his daydreaming would get him in trouble if France caught him, so he hastily worked on the meal.

Someday, he would go there. France was supposed to take him.

He smiled lightly to himself, the stinging on his cheek fading a bit. Someday, France would take him to paradise.

/AN/ Haiti at this point was definitely less fancy and such than France, especially since its main purpose was as a lucrative colony and not a cultural center. Hope someone's enjoying this story. I don't know why I felt compelled to tell it, honestly, but I do.


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